But when she looked at their faces, she saw nothing but love and life. The brackets around Lord Wix’s mouth spoke of pain and sorrow, but the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes spoke of laughter. An interesting combination that made Jane’s heart tighten. Martha looked more like his daughter, younger, hardier, less sorrow etched onto her skin. Her dark hair offered a contrast to her husband’s, which was so light yellow it shone silver in the candlelight.
They laughed often. Between bouts of coughing that did not seem to matter to them. Not in the least.
They were living. Despite his dying.
This soft, quiet love would be torn asunder. Jane mourned it already, but she also felt such joy watching them, the mourning did not ruin the picture. They took such joy in each other, in the moment. They were scared of nothing, it seemed. Why should Jane be? She had a belly full of roast goose and gingerbread, and George sat beside her, yawning, eying the gingerbread as if he’d not quite decided if he should have more or not.
Jane dared to reach toward him under the table, her fingers brushing against his hard thigh.
His gaze jerked away from Wix and toward her with a grin.
“Have another,” Jane suggested, her gaze flicking to the sweet.
“No. But Neville will like some. I do not know if he is awake yet, but I think I’ll check.”
Martha stood, pulling her husband to his feet. He leaned against her and wrapped his arm around hers for support.
“Excellent idea,” Martha said. “If he is up to it, he must join us in the parlor. The fire is built high enough to keep even Sebastian sizzling. Come with us, Jane. The fireplace is not big enough for a Yule log, like I’m sure you’re used to, but we’ll find something else to burn to rid ourselves of the cold.”
They swept from the room.
George leaned down and pecked Jane on the forehead. “Follow them. I’ll be along shortly.”
Jane followed them back to the same parlor they’d started the evening in, and Martha sat at a pianoforte as Wix retreated to an armchair by the fire.
Martha’s fingers swept across the keys, creating a playful rhythm. “Do you play, Jane?”
“Not at all, I’m afraid.”
“Shame. I should like a duet.”
“George does not possess a bad voice, if I remember. Perhaps he will accompany you.”
“Ah, you really must be in love. Or truly have no sense of music. George is not bad, but he is not good.” She chuckled as she closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to the keys in earnest, producing a lovely hymn Jane had heard in church many a Christmas morning.
Jane tunelessly hummed along and strolled around the room, looking but not truly seeing the dark wood interior of the townhouse, the many bookshelves, the elegant tables, and Axminster carpets, all drenched in soft candlelight.
Martha and Wix seemed in their own little world. She had become an extension of the music she played, and he, wholly and only, attuned to her. This—the closeness and comfort of family, though it be a small one—was what she missed from her own childhood Christmases. This scene gave her hope that though life would not be without its pains, love that filled the body as surely as candle and fire light filled the corners of this room was worth it.
“Love is a risk. But worth it,” she said, folding her hands decidedly before her.
“The young always think so.”
Jane jumped and swung toward the wavering voice.
George stood in the doorway next to an old man with wispy white hair. Uncle Neville. He was frail and gaunt as a scarecrow, but he smiled a wobbly smile at her.
“Oh, hello,” she said.Thisman was the danger George insisted on saving her from?
“Hello,” the man repeated in a voice as wobbly as his smile. “Are you an angel of death or an angel of mercy? Or are you one of Coleridge's damsels with a dulcimer?”
“I'm afraid you've lost me,” Jane admitted. “What is a dulcimer?”
“Uncle.” George’s voice had a warning in it.
Uncle Neville chuckled. “The angel of death, then. The angel of mercy would have no sense of humor.”
“I'm afraid I'm a plain girl. Not an angel at all. I'm sorry to disappoint you.”
